


Caught in Suspense

by AnnaBolena



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 100 percent fluff, Canon Era, Fanart inspired ficlet, I couldn't tell you what exact year this is, M/M, Maybe Pre-Canon?, Trans Enjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-10-08 09:45:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17384156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaBolena/pseuds/AnnaBolena
Summary: The door has only been opened a smidge when the slender, lithe form of Enjolras, recognizable immediately by the bright red fabric and the golden curls that would make the angels weep in envy, pushes itself through the gap, slamming the wood shut behind him, uncaring of the noise, and panting heavily.a.k.a. Enjolras comes to Grantaire for help, and both men get more than they bargained for.





	Caught in Suspense

**Author's Note:**

> So this was inspired by [THIS TUMBLR POST](http://www.deboracabral.tumblr.com/post/181734472208/today-was-a-bad-art-day-but-suspenders-are-always/)
> 
> I have been staring at it for weeks because I...love suspenders. This is pure fluff.

Truth be told, the path that this night’s events have taken is unexpected, but not quite as unwelcome to Grantaire as he might pretend, should anyone elect to ask him about it in the future. No, when someday he will reflect upon this night, it will be with fondness, he imagines.

It begins with not one, but two surprises.

First, his landlady presents him with leftover pastries that her daughter – the one who had gone on to marry a rich man and now lavishes her mother with gifts when she can – had brought over for the occasion of the New Year’s celebration. It pleases Grantaire and he thanks her, offers to share some of his spirits with this perpetually sober lady though he knows she will decline, but certainly appreciate the gesture.

Then, second, there comes a knock on his door, insistent and – if Grantaire is not mistaken – somewhat desperate. Perhaps, he thinks, his landlady has changed her mind after all. Grantaire is of the opinion that alcohol shared is alcohol that leaves a better taste in his mouth, come the morning. Granted, holding this opinion does not prevent Grantaire from drinking alone when no company presents itself, but that is of little consequence. No, surely it cannot be his landlady, not at this hour. He does not know what reason she should have to pound on the wood so.

He was in the middle of sampling a rather stellar vintage bottle of Spanish wine that his sisters had sent for Christmas and meticulously dissecting a rather mean philosophical pamphlet he had come upon just yesterday in a dingy back alley, when the noise so abruptly sounded to interrupt him.

The door has only been opened a smidge when the slender, lithe form of Enjolras, recognizable immediately by the bright red fabric and the golden curls that would make the angels weep in envy, pushes itself through the gap, slamming the wood shut behind him, uncaring of the noise, and panting heavily. His body shakes and his eyes are closed tightly as he leans against the door. Enjolras' magnificent hair is in a state of ruffled disarray, and before Grantaire has caught up with the situation at hand, it has changed again. For Enjolras’ fingers, delicate and finely-built as though the Creator himself had intended them to be the paragon of divine elegance, have gone to his coat, and he has shrugged it off rather unceremoniously, letting it drop to the floor.

The man seems to be in too much haste to acknowledge his surroundings. Then finally, once those same fingers are already in the midst of loosening his cravat, a deep blue tonight, he seems to notice Grantaire, gaping as a fish would at this sudden, unbelievable – if not unwelcome – intrusion. Perhaps he is ill, suffering from a bad turn or some worse affliction, and has mistaken Grantaire’s lodgings for his own, now believing Grantaire to be some vile intruder. He knows he does not look the part, mostly undressed and ready for rest once he has had his fill of wine. What self-respecting intruder would commit his crimes in a nightshirt? Well, upon reflection, if Enjolras is too out of sorts to find his own lodgings, perhaps the rather unimportant detail of a nightshirt will escape his notice as well.

He pauses, going still for a short spell and, upon clearing his throat, announces: “I require your assistance tonight, Grantaire. Will you offer it?”

So the man does know where he is – the harried, wild expression must then be the product of something else, perhaps even something benign. But no, that is a ridiculous notion to entertain, for that would mean Enjolras had sought Grantaire out voluntarily. No, there must be some pressing reason that would prompt Enjolras’ presence here. Grantaire is confident he would rather be elsewhere this evening. The man makes no secret of his frustration with Grantaire.

“Freely,” Grantaire affirms hastily, “Gladly, in fact. Of what does the great Apollo have need that this poor fool may provide?”

“Your waistcoat and a coat, perhaps a hat to complete the picture,” Enjolras responds, once more hastily resuming the battle with the cloth around his neck. “I have been to the Café Rousseau with Courfeyrac and Combeferre this night, and on our way home we found ourselves followed by police tails. It was Courfeyrac who spotted them… We elected to split up and I thought for a while that I had lost them, but I believe they may pick up my trail again swiftly if I do not disguise myself in some manner. The red, though I favor it above all other colors, is too bold to be inconspicuous as I should prefer tonight. I knew your lodgings to be close by and you to be willing, if not to aid our cause, then at least to aid me.”

“That is…quite a story,” Grantaire finally elects to say, when the creamy expanse of skin below Enjolras’ throat is revealed. It is as though a force beyond Grantaire’s power compels him to keep his eyes trained on the unblemished perfection before him. He is too weak to resist, though he feels shame in his heart to tarnish the man with his lustful eyes. 

“So it is, and now it affords you the opportunity to be useful, as you have often proclaimed a desire to be,” Enjolras prompts, growing impatient with his patterned waistcoat. It seems that along the way those fingers have lost their surety, have grown hesitant and uncertain in light of the troubles yet to befall him on his journey home. The nerves that steel Apollo have frayed at last and the efforts of his hands grow useless.

“Permit me to help,” Grantaire speaks softly, and dares to approach Enjolras. When the man catches his meaning, he inhales sharply, but ultimately agrees with a stiff nod. Tremendous effort flows into calming his own trembling hands, but Grantaire works the buttons open one by one under Enjolras’ watchful gaze, until he can hold his silence no longer.

“Have they followed you here?”´

His waistcoat is half-open after some work, Grantaire’s fingers gain confidence, now that he has not been pushed aside. They do not stray from the set task but complete it diligently. His hand would not dare linger where it would never be welcome. Grantaire must keep in mind that he is doing Enjolras a service, that he does not disrobe the man because he desires to be touched. Not by Grantaire, not by any being. 

“Pardon?” Enjolras answers, sounding somewhat out of breath still. Perhaps he has run here, Grantaire muses, though surely the man should know better than to run immediately when noticing a pursuer?

“The abominable spy, your vile police tail,” Grantaire prompts, “Did he see you enter this house? This street? Has he an approximate knowledge of your dwellings, of where your route tonight shall take you?”

“How should I know?”

“I assume you must have checked, repeatedly as you made your way here, to see if he was still in pursuit? Surely this was not the first instance that you have noticed a tail? I should expect you to be well-versed in the habit of dodging those that would follow you.”

“I could not see him when I entered this house, but he may very well have been hiding from sight. Do not concern yourself that you will be implicated, I shall be gone as swiftly as I came.”

“It is just that – I meant to say you need not depart tonight if he knows not that you are here, do you see? Why risk once more traversing the streets at such an hour? And in such weather too! Look, your fingers are frozen! Surely you could more comfortably pass the night here, where I have a fire going and a bed to offer at that, than plan an elaborate ruse with clothes that would fit you ill; our measurements are quite dissimilar, after all. You are slender where my girth is substantial, and you are tall where I am...less so.”

The waistcoat falls away, and in pushing it off Enjolras’ shoulders he has brought them closer together still. The starched fabric does not entirely lose its shape around Enjolras’ boots, and it is slightly comical to behold the garment on the floor. It also makes Grantaire aware that he has been keeping his eyes trained to the wooden panels that bear them. Now, from this vantage point he risks a glance at the man he has found himself pressed against, to find blue eyes intent upon him.

“You make a reasonably compelling argument,” Enjolras concedes, at last. Grantaire steps away, he cannot bear the proximity for so long. The light Enjolras emanates is too much like fire, it burns him if he orbits too closely. He believes this to be the first time Enjolras has commented positively on any of his words, and his head spins at the faint praise. If only it were always so easy to command Enjolras’ attention, to have him look upon Grantaire with mild approval and not dismay. But tonight is an exception, not the rule, and Grantaire is not even certain yet that he is not dreaming.

“You will stay, then? If you should prefer to go I believe I may find a coat for you that shall not appear to be too obviously not your own, though it is rather old, I confess…”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras’ voice has regained some of that warm, passionate timbre that captured Grantaire's heart so fully once upon a drunken night. “I will stay, if it is not too much trouble.”

“Not at all,” Grantaire hastens to assure him, “I…the floor shall serve me well enough for a night, and you may take the bed.”

“I do not seek to oust you from your own bed, not after I have so rudely imposed on your evening already,” Enjolras insists, stretching his fingers and observing the act carefully.

“And I should wish to be a better host than to leave you to the hard floorboards, especially after the evening you must have had. Take the bed, Enjolras, I beg of you, and sleep. The hour is late and I am not of a form to argue which one of us shall chivalrously cede the comforts of the bed. Please, I insist.”

Enjolras beholds the bed for a while. Then he bends to retrieve his discarded clothes.

“It is a large bed,” he finally says, to Grantaire’s shock. “I do not think I shall take up so much space that we should be incapable of sharing the thing.”

“Are you not…uncomfortable, to share such proximity with a skeptic such as my person?”

Enjolras’ red coat is now draped carefully over one of the three chairs Grantaire owns, the waistcoat set before it. Orderly, structured.

“A skeptic you may be, yes, but just now you have proven yourself a friend as well. That is quite enough for us to share the bed. Do not trouble yourself over my comfort and take my word for it.”

Perhaps the gift his sisters sent was more powerful than imagined, perhaps the Spanish put something more powerful in their wine than grapes, for this feels too strongly like the effects of Opium. Enjolras willing to share a bed with Grantaire seems impossible. And yet – had Grantaire not touched him? Had his fingers not brushed soft fabric as he loosened the waistcoat? Had he not felt the beating of Enjolras’ rabbit-quick pulse? Had he not smelled him, the scent of ink to accompany the stains on his fingers, some smudges wiped too hastily on his trousers and spilling over onto the otherwise splendidly clean white shirt? The suspenders now revealed to him smell of leather, freshly purchased, most likely, and real as the rest of him.

No, before him stands Enjolras, and Enjolras has offered they share the bed. Now Grantaire must come to terms with the proposition. Enjolras, for his part, has removed his boots with some effort, and now sits upon the bed, looking expectant.

“Well?” He says, and Grantaire takes a deep breath. He nods. 

The night passes excruciatingly slowly and too quickly all at once, because rest will not find Grantaire while Enjolras lies beside him, illuminated only by the shine of the moon. After he had drawn the blanket over his body, Enjolras had reached into his billowing shirt and performed a rather complicated procedure of removing long strips of fabric from his person which, to Grantaire, appeared similar to bandages. Now that the fabric of the blanket has shifted to Enjolras’ hips, for the man is – contrary to his own declaration of not taking up much space – quite fussy in his sleep, he sees the reason in the way his chest moves with every deep breath. There is softness to the man’s chest where he had not expected it, he can clearly see the shape of him beneath the shirt, even with so little light to assist his sight. It is a secret Enjolras has unwittingly entrusted Grantaire with, but one he will keep safe as long as he breathes.   

Dawn breaks and Grantaire, feeling as though he has only just drifted off to sleep, awakens to the sight and sound of Enjolras muffling curses into his shoulder as he attempts to work the strips of fabric around his chest once more without having taken off his shirt. 

A minute shift of his body has the bed creaking and Enjolras’ body tensing.

“I…I could help you with that as well, if you would permit me to,” Grantaire settles on saying, because he cannot pretend to be asleep for much longer. His breathing would be too irregular, Enjolras would notice, and either way he feels he should be honest.

Enjolras glances at him over his shoulder, eyes wide and caught between terror and defensive anger.

“This does not mean what you surely think-”

“I believe I know well what it means, and I know that I have helped other young men with such bindings before. You were right to take it off while you slept, but it seems frightfully difficult to go about reapplying it as you seem to want to.”

Enjolras considers him a while longer, then pulls his shirt over his head to reveal the naked skin of his back to Grantaire.

“I would not have you look upon me from the front,” he whispers, “If you truly mean to help me.”

“Then I shall manage well enough from the back,” Grantaire vows, and sets to task. He is careful not to touch Enjolras if he can help it, and it is a relief to see him pull his shirt back over his head without further incident. The body beneath his hands is no longer tense, though heat radiates from him and sets Grantaire aflame in turn. Enjolras stands, slips on his suspenders and beholds Grantaire, who also gets up to pull on trousers and his own suspenders. Discarded haphazardly last night it takes him a while to locate them, but finally he discovers them in his kitchen, one under the table and the other hanging off his cupboard. All the while he is acutely aware of Enjolras’ gaze following him.

“Do you believe the trail to have gone cold?” Enjolras asks when Grantaire has fastened his trousers sufficiently, one finger ghosting over the coat, still limply hanging over Grantaire’s chair. Then, when Grantaire takes too long to answer, Enjolras cards his hands through his hair and reties it, less orderly than Grantaire is accustomed to.

“I do not think that any spy should be so determined as to pass a night in the bitter cold waiting for you to emerge from a building he may not even have seen you enter,” Grantaire pronounces. “Daylight brings with it Parisian crowds in which you may easily blend in. Take some bread before you make your way home, and I expect we shall meet again when our fellow citizens get together to plan the schemes you were pursued for.”

“Thank you, Grantaire,” Enjolras speaks, after a few beats of silence have nearly suffocated Grantaire. “I…I believe I may owe you some apologies for ever having doubted you. This night has proven that you are quite capable of many a wondrous thing, and that your heart is much kinder than a man could hope."

Grantaire, to distract from the fact that he is very much at a loss for words, plays with one leather strap, looking off to the side. His fingers itch for something to do, and this is quite convenient. “There is no need, Enjolras. Simply know that it has been my pleasure to be of use to you, and should you ever find yourself pursued again, know that my humble lodgings are yours to commandeer for the night.”

“Merely for one night?” Enjolras wonders, his voice slightly laced with mirth, though Grantaire knows not why. It is not a habit of Enjolras to seem amused – no, he meets the world with stern eyes and serious prose. But he sees it clearly now, that trace of humor Courfeyrac swore existed, for the first time.

“I do not see a reason why you should need to pass more than one night here, but if such a need would arise, then certainly you would be welcome to stay as long as you like.”

Enjolras beholds him a while longer, and then he crosses over to him, two steps, no more are necessary, to take his face into his hands and press his lips to Grantaire's slightly agape mouth. It is too quick for Grantaire to even close his eyes, to savor the moment as he should like to, and too quickly it ends once more.

There are a million things Grantaire would have liked to have been afforded the opportunity to do when kissing Enjolras. He should have liked to touch his chin, should have liked to let his hand caress hair, neck, shoulder, should have liked to wrap the man in his arms and heighten their combined passion, should have liked to press against Enjolras and pull him in even closer until no more space remained between their bodies, until they became as close to a singular being as humanly possible.

But such a brief contact is lovely all in itself. It is a sweet thing, to have felt Enjolras’ lips on him, and a right thing that the priest of the republic should keep such a gesture short and chaste, lest the mistress he vies for – that fickle Patria – should grow resentful of Grantaire.

Still, to have felt such a thing at all! Grantaire thinks that he should die a happy man, if his soul were to be in demand on the morrow.

Enjolras pulls back, offers Grantaire a shy smile that looks impossibly beautiful on his young face, and says: “There you have your reason.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on tumblr, its AnnaBrolena


End file.
